You're So Dead to Me (Grimdale Graveyard Mysteries, #1)

by Steffanie Holmes

my resting bitchface is so legendary that sonnets have been composed in its honor.

“Walpurgis, stop that,” Agnes snaps. “You’re supposed to be a servant of Satan, not a gibbering pup.”

“I hope you steered well clear of France,” Agnes says with a sniff. “French people live there.”

Edward didn’t like being confronted by his own grandiose and garish grave erected by his friends, since his family disowned him (although he did occasionally deign to stand on the edge of the cemetery to give a suitable backdrop for his morose and terrible poetry). And when Pax was alive, the cemetery land was the site of a bloody battle between the Roman forces and the Celtic tribes where he was slain, and he can still hear the Celtic war cries as they mowed down his friends…

Ambrose skids into the room, so excited that he swings his cane around like a gladiator on kill-one-get-one-free day at the Colosseum.

And now my verpa is standing at attention, and ghosts can’t jerk their own cucumbers, and it’s very annoying.

Pax is casting his eyes around, desperate for something to stab that will solve the problem.

“I’m fine,” I lie. “I have something in my eye.” “You do,” he nods in agreement. “You have sadness. But I will find a way to make it better.”

I am not good with women. I am a champion stabber, a world-class Druid slayer, a brilliant brawler, and a passable tenor. But when it comes to romance, I come from the ‘throw them over your shoulder and fuck them until their legs turn to jelly’ school of seduction.

I dare myself to lift my head. My eyes are closed. I’m too afraid of what I might see. “Bree?” a gravelly voice whispers. I open my eyes. Standing before me, his fingers still entwined with mine, is Pax, solid and enormous, and very much alive.